


Gotta Go Fast

by totallycheesey



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: BECAUSE I HATE DADDY KINK, Drag Racing AU, Hand Jobs, M/M, Myan - Freeform, No Daddy Kink, Past Relationship(s), Phone Sex, Rimming, THE WHOLE REASON I WROTE THIS IS BECAUSE I HATE DADDY KINK SO MUCH, micheoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallycheesey/pseuds/totallycheesey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael races because everything sucks and it's one of the few things he enjoys. <br/>Enter: Geoff. <br/>Enter: Ryan. <br/>Enter: gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotta Go Fast

            The engine rumbles low, its vibration surrounding Michael. The motion is nearly soothing; playful compared to the power the vehicle possessed when shifted into full gear. His hand settles around the stick thoughtfully, thumb running down the side to move into neutral. The engine doesn’t even catch; it continues to run, stagnant behind the blue chalk line established a few inches in front of the front tires.

            He’s been waiting all of five minutes when he hears the growl of another engine roll up beside him. Michael doesn’t open the window to look at the car; Regal Grand National, the type of Buick that stood for itself since the 1987 GNX edition. Luckily, the driver left it to its original starless shade of night-black. Michael nearly cried when he saw a custom Hulk-green two weeks ago in the Walmart parking lot.

            Depending on if the engine is tuned, the damn car might run well past Michael’s Hellcat.

            The driver rolls down his window, so Michael sighs and does the same. The guy is dark-haired and bright-eyed, with tattoos coating the arm draped across the wheel (and likely his other arm). He’s old enough to have experience and young enough to work gauges, and he seems to have a reasonable grasp on street racing if the shout the crowd means anything. The people on Michael’s sidewalk are excitable enough (he hasn’t missed a race in three years, and in that time only lost an odd seventeen), but nothing compared to the roar of the other racer’s side.

            “How come I’ve never seen you before?” Michael shouts over the noise. “I’m out here every Thursday and Saturday.”

            The driver yells back, “I usually take Fridays near the Sonic on Sundown Drive. This is the first time I’ve raced on the straight.”

            Sundown Drive is a race for the quarter, and the street they currently sit on is for the half. The lack of curves led to its nickname of “the straight,” but a consistent scatter of potholes make amateur drivers wary of racing on the street. Michael doubts this man is an amateur, though; by the look of his ride alone, Michael knows he has to be pretty dedicated.

            “So? Are you gonna start the banter or do I have to?” the driver asks.

            Michael grits his teeth. “You know, I was actually thinking about skipping that part. Since I don’t know you and all. But, I mean, fuck if I’m gonna turn that down. I’ll break you on this road, shithead.” He knows the insult is as feeble as they come, but he really doesn’t want to get too into the road rage with a new guy. He’s going to run the Buick into the dirt anyhow.

            “The name’s not Shithead, it’s Geoff.”

            “Michael.” He revs his engine. He is ready for this conversation to be over.

            By cue of the engine, a woman struts into the street, standing between the paths of the two cars. She raises a checkered flag. Michael shifts into first. She holds up the material for the count of three, then lets it fall to the ground.

            Michael pushes his foot onto the pedal and speeds off.

            The rush is incredible. Even in first gear, Michael feels himself shoved backwards as if thrown against his seat, and he has to bite back a laugh as the RPM jets up to level four and he shifts into second. Only for a second, the Hellcat falls back, then builds speed even greater. The Buick beside him is steadily going faster and faster (“Fucking automatics,” Michael mumbles.), and soon Michael is in third, then fourth, then pushing to the blue chalk finish line…

            This is the first time in a while that Michael doesn’t know who won. He slows nearly to a stop before putting the car into reverse and returning to the finish line, Geoff following suit. They park haphazardly across the chalk border and get out. Michael eyes Geoff, who walks his way rather than to the people standing near the finish line to ask for their confirmation of the winner.

He stands across from Michael and holds a hand out, smiling politely. “Good race.”

Taking the hand slowly, Michael shakes it. “You too.” The hand is warm and calloused.

He is still holding Geoff’s hand when a member of the crowd rushes to the duo. “So, how’s it feel to best the straight on your first try?”

“I race the straight every week,” Michael says. He releases himself from the handshake.

Geoff pats Michael on the back. “He’s talking to me, pal.”

It takes a few seconds for Michael to process what he’s said, and at that point all he can think is “Motherfucker.” Michael frowns at Geoff. “This is the first time I’ve lost in _months_.”

“I’m honored, kid.”

“ _Fuck_.” This is so fucked up, Michael can’t stand it. “This is your first time racing the straight though! How the _fuck_ did you win on your first try?”

Leaning towards Michael, Geoff says, “I’ll tell you a secret.” He cups his hand to Michael’s ear and whispers, “It’s all in the tuning.”

“Fuck you.”

Geoff ruffles Michael’s hair and says, “I visited this street a few times on my way to work to get used to the street. Trust me, I’ve heard about Free flipping on this road because of the holes. There’s no way in hell I would let that happen to my ride.”

Michael is blushing because Geoff is still pushing his fingers through his hair, holding at the back of Michael’s head and running over his skin. It’s as annoying as it is tantalizing, but Michael doesn’t tell Geoff to stop. Instead he asks, “When do I see you again?”

“Why, so I can kick your ass again?”

“For payback.”

Geoff looks so amused that Michael is almost mad. “It’s a game, kid. You win or lose. You can’t have both.” He tugs at a curl thoughtfully, and Michael wants to either punch him or moan.

“Stop calling me kid,” is what he settles on.

“Hmm.” Leaning close to Michael again, Geoff says, “I’ll give you something to get mad about,” and presses a kiss to Michael’s lips. It is slow but not chaste, and sensual but not necessarily passionate. He pulls away and swallows, and Michael knows that Geoff wants to do more to him, but by now the crowd is beginning to fade away as the street lights kick in to punch synthetic LED light into the dark of a falling evening.

Running his hands down Michael’s back, Geoff says, “I’ll be here again next Saturday. Feel free to beat the hell out of me for kissing you.” He lets go and walks back to the Buick, steps in, shuts the door, starts up the engine.

He is down the street and Michael is kicking himself for not following him or asking him to come back sooner. They could’ve probably met on Monday for a private race, or gotten together with the Sunday crowd. They could have arranged _something._ Michael is thinking dinner or a night at the movies.

 _Come back,_ he wants to say, _it’s only eight._

Instead, he gets in the Hellcat and cranks up the engine. He doesn’t turn on the radio as he drives home. He rolls down the windows and listens to the city’s conversation.

 

 

            Saturday comes only after days of anxious, impatient activity. On Sunday Michael goes to the movies and leaves after the previews. Monday night he drops into the casino once more than usual, then doubles back for another chance at the slot machine (shit’s jinxed). Tuesday he doesn’t leave the house, Wednesday he doesn’t come home, Thursday he hits the pavement hard and earns five thousand in bets (he only bets on Thursdays). Friday slopes into a day of waiting, grocery shopping, and chewing nails. Finally: Saturday.

            His jeans are so fucking tight that he can hardly breathe (a ridiculously harsh change from his usual racing sweats) and his shirt advertises a local metal band that once sponsored his antics. Michael is near positive that Geoff will appreciate the pants more than the shirt, though Michael expects to be hit on regardless of what he wears. It’s a nice feeling, like he’s getting ready for something more important than his usual trip to the straights. Like his appearance suddenly matters as much as his skill.

            There is enough anticipation in Michael to make him bypass the speed limit by at least fifteen miles per hour, and when he parks the Hellcat in front of a fresh chalk line he feels like shaking. It’s only 6:50 and Geoff didn’t show up until 7:30 the previous week, so there’s no reason for Michael to be so disappointed when a red Charger pulls up beside him instead of the black Buick. Pattillo’s not a bad racer, but Michael wins by landslide. Another racer replaces the previous one and another and another while Michael keeps his side of the street, but when it’s 9:52 and the crowd has long past cleared, he can’t help but miss losing to the guy in the Grand National.

            The stereo is blaring Tenacious D when he begins to pull away from the finish line, but a sharp rapping on the passenger window makes Michael slam on breaks. The knocking is hard enough to make him irate. He turns down the music and rolls down the window, middle finger already extended. “I oughta skin your bitch ass for fucking with my window like that! What the fuck do you want?”

            A curly-haired girl tosses a note into the passenger seat and says, “Regards from Ramsey,” before walking away.

            “Who the fuck is Ramsey?!” Michael shouts after her, but when she doesn’t turn around he rolls the window back up and takes the folded piece of paper. It reads:

_Sorry about not making it tonight. Complications with work. Can’t sleep, can’t drive. Making me regret my job even more than usual. Don’t know when I’ll be back. My number is xxx-xxxx. Text me about the kiss. Can’t stop thinking about it, even at work. See you._

-          _Geoff Ramsey_

The first thing that Michael does is punch the number into his phone contacts. The second is to shove the note in the glove compartment. Then, and only then, does he drive home.

 

 

**1:32 AM**

M: hey

Im so happy that you got the note!! :G

So. the kiss?? :G

Im dying to know. :G

M: um

M: wow. what can i say, it was fucking magical

M: and i really wanna do it again

;) Your wish is my command. :G

M: what about that girl

M: she basically punched the shit out of my window

M: who the fuck was she

Angela. shes a good friend and she was carrying a glock. :G

The saying goes “dont shoot the messenger” but in her case shes always ready to fire. :G

She was pissed about the skinning comment. :G

M: tell her im sorry. i was still mad about you not showing up

M: im still kinda pissed that you didnt show

M: like i get that you have work shit but

M: couldnt you have warned me

I wouldve been there if i could. trust me. :G

M: trusting a stranger? hell no

A stranger who kissed you and gave you their number. :G

M: still a stranger

:( i really am sorry. :G

M: alright

**2:04 AM**

M: too bad you didnt show up

M: i wouldve totally given you a blowjob

**8:52 AM**

Fuck. :G

 

 

            His hopes aren’t near as high this Saturday as they were last, but Michael still dresses up a little more than usual (tight jeans and a grey button-up) and makes sure to be early to the straights. By six he’s already parked and ready to roll when, to his joy, a black Buick pulls up beside him. He unbuckles in a hurry and opens the door, rushing to the side of Geoff’s car.

Geoff rolls down the window and Michael immediately asks, “How long do you have?”

“A few hours. I just gotta be back around eleven, need to sleep and throw in some laundry.”

“Well… Do you wanna cut out of here after a race?” The question baffles Michael even as he speaks it; he’s never come for only one race and left. Normally, he puts in up to five hours in a single day.

“And go where?” Geoff doesn’t sound impressed.

A wave of disappointment washes over Michael. “Forget about it.”

Sighing, Geoff says, “I’m sorry. Things have just been a little crazy lately and I’m not sure of what I can handle right now and what I can’t. I want to get together with you, really, but now isn’t a good time.”

“It’s okay. I get it.” Even though he really doesn’t, Michael makes himself step away from the window and get back in the Hellcat.

The race isn’t near as spectacular as their first. Michael’s stick catches on the third gear and refuses to budge until he nears the end of the race, and by that point Geoff is leading by a semi’s length. When he reverses back to the finish line, Michael cuts off the engine. He isn’t angry, though, not like usual. There’s a deficiency of emotions within him, and one side of him wants to tell his brain to snap the fuck out of the haze and quit acting like a middle school kid who got their date turned down. The other wants to go home and have a couple of beers, to wash away the ridiculously sticky disappointment in his spine.

Either way, it comes as a shock when Geoff taps at Michael’s window. Michael rolls the glass down accordingly and Geoff says, “I can meet you Wednesday night. Text me your address and I’ll be there around seven. I mean, if that’s good with you.” When Michael doesn’t say anything, he continues, “Look, I feel really shitty about turning you down. Even if we aren’t technically involved, you probably deserve someone better anyways. I just-”

Michael’s hand is at the back of Geoff’s head and he’s pulling Geoff into a kiss, shifting to accommodate the awkward position of the open window around them. Michael nips at his lips gently and combs his hands through Geoff’s hair, sighing, content for the first time since he met the other racer.

He pulls away slowly, hand still on Geoff’s head. “Be there on time and I’ll forgive you, asshole.”

Geoff nods, and Michael waits for Geoff to drive away before backing up all the way to the starting line. Another driver quickly fills the space where the Buick once was, and Michael feels a quiet emptiness build where there used to be balance.

 

 

**12:15 AM**

You kiss like a god. :G

M: what god would that be

Guy aphrodite. :G

M: thanks B)

M: thought you were supposed to be sleeping

I would if i didnt have to look over work bs. :G

M: that sucks

M: what the fuck is your job anyways

Astronaut. :G

M: fine bitch. dont tell me

M: asshole

Trust me, its better if you dont know. :G

M: or you might have to shoot me? nice

-_- :G

M: what? didnt know my race buddy was 007

-_- :G

M: fine. ill stop asking

**1:58 AM**

M: are you still up

Y eah. why? :G

M: go to sleep

K :G

M: and my address is 4289 monroe walk

M: see you wednesday

<3 :G

 

 

            It’s the fourth time that Michael tries to run a brush through his hair when he decides to fuck it and just throw a hat over the unruly curls. He squashes his hair into submission beneath the Red Sox cap and brushes his plain shirt off, longing for the lint roller he saw in Target the night before. Michael forces himself to sit on the couch where a Tarantino film blasts beneath a film of static, fed by cables Michael stole from his neighbors’ apartment after they moved out. It’s seven and he’s more nervous than he’s ever been before a date.

            A knock on the door twenty minutes later leaves Michael sprinting to the front of the threshold, panting as he throws the door open. There Geoff stands, with uncombed hair and a five-o’clock shadow cast across his face. Michael notes that his initial suspicion of Geoff’s tattoos spreading across both arms is true; the dark hues of ink swirl from the sharps of his fingers all the way to peaking beneath the sleeves of his plaid short-sleeve. The thought of what tattoos may be lurking beneath made Michael draw in a sharp breath. “I never realized how much of a hipster you are.”

            “A hipster? Are you shitting me?” Geoff laughs and leans against the door frame.

            Michael shrugs. “The tattoos. The plaid. The facial hair. I’m sure you could have a legit hipster mustache if you let it grow out.”

            “That’s just what I need, a fucking mustache.” There’s enough of a smile beneath Geoff’s voice that Michael doesn’t take the words to heart.

            Shifting, Michael asks, “So, what does that make me? A skater? A thrasher?”

            “I’d pin you for a prep.”

            “Oh, what-fucking-ever!” Michael gives Geoff a playful shove. “Like preps honestly choose to advertise baseball. They usually go for football, and if it they _do_ like baseball, it’s always the fucking Cardinals. I get bonus points for it not being a flat bill either, because that would make me look like a total douche.”

            “Well, I get to take away points for the jeans.”

            Offended, Michael asks, “What’s wrong with them?”

            “Nothing wrong, just a little…” Geoff meets Michael’s eyes. “Tight.”

            Finally, he’s noticed. Michael wondered if he would _ever_ notice. “I’ll have you know that I wore these entirely for your benefit, since I’m pretty sure that you’re an ass type of guy and, as you can see,” Michael turns for Geoff slowly, “I have a very, very nice ass.”

            There’s a glint in Geoff’s eye when he asks, “How sure are you that I’m an ass guy?”

            “At least seventy-five percent.”

            “And by that estimate, you decided to wear tight jeans?”

            Michael moves his hands to hold the sides of Geoff’s face to meet in a soft kiss. “It’s not a wild assumption, right?”

            “Not by any means.”

            Michael laughs. “So, are we getting in your car at any point tonight?”

            Flustered, Geoff says, “Yeah, yeah, of course. Let’s get out of here.” He moves out of the way for Michael to walk out (Michael grabs the keys off the hook first) and ushers him down the hall.

            The Buick is parked in a No Parking zone, and Michael can already tell that the night is going to be perfect.

 

 

            The first thing that surprises Michael is how much Geoff moves his hands when he’s sitting still. He find this out while the waitress dishes out glasses of water, when Geoff passes her his menu, while Geoff tries attacks different subjects of conversation. They get stuck on video games for a while, and that’s what the evening begins to revolve around: the exchange of gamertags, the arrangement of meetings through GTA, what mods to download for Minecraft.

            The second thing that really hits Michael is how good Geoff smells. Even over the distinct scent of the Italian food set between the two, he can pick out a certain flavor that never seems to leave Geoff: fresh as mint, yet spicier than a habanero. Michael settles on cinnamon, though there’s still more of a husky variant to the smell than what the word “cinnamon” offers to the subject. When he asks Geoff what cologne he’s wearing, Geoff blushes and says, “Nothing.”

            The third, and decidedly most irritating shock to Michael, is how much Geoff leaves the table.

            It’s always a different excuse: using the bathrooms, freshening up, taking medication. Whatever variant Geoff chooses when he stands from his chair for the sixth time, Michael doesn’t listen, because he knows it’s equal bullshit. Geoff’s taken a total of three bites of his lasagna whereas Michael demolished his between Geoff’s trip to the bathroom and the time he got up to “make sure the car is safe.” The lasagna wasn’t even that fucking amazing to begin with.

Michael waits until Geoff rounds a corner to get up himself; he traces the path he mapped between Geoff’s trips to the same place and finds himself at an alternate exit for the restaurant. The door is cracked by a doorstop, and through the glass plating Michael can make out Geoff’s silhouette talking into a TracFone. He presses himself to the wall beside the door’s opening and listens, quiet.

            “I already fucking told you…Yes, I’ve been careful. What the fuck do you mean, I’m the best on the team. Fucking idiot… He’s our guy. Yes. Michael Jones.”

            Michael’s heart skips a beat. Things suddenly fall into place; Geoff’s insistence on being alone with Michael after only having known him for a few weeks, the phone calls, the absences, the lack of emotional attachment. Geoff is a cop, and for whatever reason, he’s onto Michael.

            He tries to go over his recent crimes, but the worst he can come up with is scoring some coke from the dude behind the Chick-Fil-A. He ended up throwing the shit away in the end because he thought about his mom whenever he saw the packet in his glovebox, but the purchase alone could be reason for his arrest. Somehow, the crime didn’t seem like something he was being traced for, though; drag racing had always been his worst (and most constant) offense, but with the cult-like gathering that had developed around the practice in the city, there was no warrant for Michael to be the one punished for a sport played by millions.

            And then, he realizes; Geoff thinks he’s found the Mad King.

“I am fucking positive, Chad, stop patronizing me. Fucking dipshit. Michael Jones is our guy. Well, I mean, technically my guy, but whatever. He drives like Sonic the Hedgehog on wheels and sticks to the racing scene in a way that could be considered professional. You can call the dogs in when I get proof of gang activity, alright? Alright… Fucking Christ, Chad, of course I was kidding about the idiot thing. Dammit. Bye.” When Geoff flips the phone such and presses his face into his hand, Michael nudges himself forward, out the door, into the cool night air to pull Geoff into his arms.

“Fucking shit, you scared the hell out of me!” Geoff yells, and Michael can’t make himself laugh so he buries his face in Geoff’s shoulder. “I was coming back inside in a second, you didn’t have to come find me.”

Michael has enough rage inside to force a smile. “I could’ve waited, but there was a problem.”

Eyes furrowing, Geoff takes the bait. “What problem?”

Hook, line, and sinker, baby. Michael lifts his head to gaze into Geoff’s eyes. Slowly, tantalizingly, he licks at his top lip. “The problem is that I want you. Bad.”

“Bad…” Geoff tests the word, a haze of lust already dusking over his voice and taking his tone an octave lower, deeper, more rumbling than usual. “I think that can be arranged. We can head back to your place, if you want. I gotta get the bill first though.”

Geoff makes a move to pull away from Michael, but instead Michael pushes Geoff up against the door roughly, hands snaking beneath the plaid of his shirt and ghosting over the lines of the ribs beneath. Geoff begins to protest but Michael makes quick work of shoving his tongue between Geoff’s teeth, kissing hard into him as a hand slips to Geoff’s back pocket. He palms Geoff’s ass for a moment, groping for good measure until he receives a groan of appreciation, then fishes the keys he knows will be there out of the pocket. Michael slips the keys into his own pocket and removes himself from Geoff’s grasp, watching Geoff already try to straighten himself from their activities.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Geoff compliments before Michael’s fist catches him in the gut, then in the dick. He hunches over, coughing and spitting in agony while Michael stands above him, arms crossed.

“I have three words for you, jackass,” Michael snarls. There is so much more than three words that he wants to say, but he limits himself because he knows Geoff will be standing upright soon. “Fuck you asshole.” He breaks into a sprint to the parking lot, to where he knows the Buick is parked, and jams the keys into the keyhole. He misses the first time, scratching into the black paint, but he doesn’t care, nothing really matters, this fucker is a cop and he’s probably already recovered from the punches. Michael throws the door open and locks himself in before turning the keys in the ignition, putting the vehicle in reverse, throwing the car backwards all too quickly, shifting to drive, speeding out of the lot. Out of the rearview mirror he thinks he can see Geoff standing where they had kissed, shoulders hunched. In retrospect, Michael thinks he probably should have taken the TracFone too, but he doesn’t dwell too much on the subject and speeds the entire way home. He parks beside his apartment parking garage in a Tow Away zone, leaves the keys in the seat with the hopes that someone will steal the fucking thing, and stomps to his floor.

When he gets to his apartment, he slams the door shut and shoves the deadbolt in as far as it will go, locks the knob, spreads out on the couch and watches the news for an hour. He wakes up at some point in the night to a static television and knocking at the door. He sits in silence; after a few more tries at the door, the person punches the wall and walks away. Michael lies awake for a moment, listening to the scratch of televised froth, before reaching for the remote and turning off the TV.

 

 

**9:37 PM**

Michael. :G

**10:52 PM**

Michael im sorry. :G

**12:22 AM**

I couldnt have told you no matter what. youd think i was a. kidding or b. an asshole. :G

I guess either of those are better than what happened thought. :G

*though :G

**2:57 AM**

Fuck my life. :G

**9:33 AM**

Can you at least tell me where you left my car? :G

The “fuck you asshole” thing was a good terminator reference. :G

M: fuck you

Okay. i deserve that. :G

But we really need to talk. :G

Sooner rather than later. :G

M: fuck off

Youll be seeing me whether you want to or not. i thought id try to give you a choice. :G

Oh well. see you around i guess. :G

M: im blocking your number

Cmon michael. :G

Dont do this. :G

Please. :G

 

 

            Michael actually prays before he goes to race that he won’t see Geoff. Last night’s mishap was one of the least pleasant experiences to his name (even if it did involve the lovely act of dick-punching), plus he had resulted in the towing/stealing/destruction of Geoff’s vintage vehicle. Things would not be pretty if he had to see Geoff, but it didn’t mean he was going to stop drag racing, and it sure as _fuck_ didn’t mean he was about to stop racing on the straight. As far as Michael is concerned, this is his territory and if Geoff sees fit to intrude upon said territory, it’s up to him to pull the knife out.

            The pure rush of joy that hits Michael when he pulls into racing position without the Buick in sight is near euphoric, and he immediately puts his efforts towards setting bets against the other racers. He wins every time, sometimes by a few feet, sometimes by a few cars’ length, and collects the dues quickly after because, in the back of his mind, he’s fairly certain that the money in the console is going to be put towards bail.

            By nine the crowd is dispersing and he’s sitting at the finish line in his car, doors locked while he counts the money. He thinks he might have been shorted by fifty, but it doesn’t even dent the day’s earnings. Michael feels satisfied in the work he’s done until the glint of headlights appear in the rearview mirror. There isn’t a doubt in his mind as to who it could be.

            A rental Scion parks beside Michael. He doesn’t flinch when the car door slams shut, driver standing beside his window. He just rolls down the window by a few centimeters: enough space to force a blade through, though too thin for a fist to permeate.

            “I came to ask you a few questions,” Geoff says, and it’s the last thing Michael wants to hear right now.

            “Why?” He can hear the hurt in his own voice. “Is it for your stupid investigation? Isn’t it obvious that I’m not the Mad King?” Michael wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand to calm the stinging. “You’ve never seen me perform gang activity, you’ve never found drugs on me, I’ve never even talkedabout weapons with you. Why in the fuck do you think I’m the Mad King?”

            Geoff sighs. There is a pause, and Michael feel the decisive tone emanating from Geoff, even from the other side of the window. “I’d know that driving style anywhere.”

            His head slams back into the leather seat, and Michael shuts his eyes tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “And this is evidence how?”

            “This is enough for me to suspect. Why else would I still have been poking around you if I didn’t need more proof? I can’t convict you yet, not until I catch you performing gang activity, or if you identify yourself as the Mad King.” There is a little sadness behind the words, enough to make Michael regret stealing the Buick. “Look, I really shouldn’t be telling you all of this, but I feel like I owe it to you to tell you what I’m looking for.”

            “Well, if all that you told me is truth, I guess I owe you a truth too.” Michael doesn’t know why he’s doing this but he is. “He was my mentor. Before, you know, all the shit with gang warfare and whatnot. When he was getting started. We were… Associated with a shared interest in the road, and he decided to share a few tips with me on how to beat the other drivers.” The tears are already rolling down his cheeks, and he sniffles. There’s no hiding it anymore. “I didn’t do anything with him, I swear. We kissed a few times and fucked around a little, but I was never part of his following. I dropped the relationship when I found out who he was.”

            “He never told you who he was?”

            The sympathy in Geoff’s voice makes him angry. “Like you’re any better, dipshit. I’m gonna go ahead and claim my right to remain silent, thank you very much.”

            “There’s nothing else you can tell me?”

            Michael throws open the door and steps out of the car. He strides to Geoff, takes him by the shoulders, and shakes. “I don’t owe you anything!” All these fucking deceptions, all this shit from the past few years, it stops him as fast as he started. He lets go. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop tracking me. You’re wasting your time because I told you everything I want to, and you won’t get anything else out of me. Now get the fuck out of here.”

            It’s Geoff’s turn to wind his hands around Michael’s shoulders. He speaks gently. “I’m not looking for answers anymore. I just…” He swallows and looks Michael in the eye. “I actually think I like you.”

            That makes Michael laugh. “That makes two of us,” he says bitterly, and he’s about to shrug off Geoff’s hands when Geoff moves closer. Silently, slowly, with all the trepidation of waiting to be shot, Michael accepts the kiss. He doesn’t move; he just lets it happen and waits for Geoff to stop.

            Geoff asks with a raw voice, “Can’t we make this real?”

            “It’s your fault for being a cop, dipshit.” While he speaks, Michael’s arms wind around Geoff’s waist. His cheeks are still damp. “Fuck. This is such bullshit. Fuck.”

            Carefully, Geoff wipes away the wetness beneath Michael’s eyes with a thumb. “Tell me when to stop.”

            “That’s not the problem.” Michael takes Geoff’s hand between his own, making space between the two. The world feels decidedly colder, but Michael forces himself to stand the short distance away. He really, really doesn’t want to cry again.

            “Then what is?” It hurts to see how genuinely concerned Geoff is, most obviously displayed in the curve of his lip.

            Michael bows his head. “I actually don’t want you to stop.” He traces Geoff’s knuckles, the dents in the bones. He tries to make himself resent the feeling, but there’s nothing about it to hate. “That’s the problem.”

 

 

**11:04 PM**

M: just so you know, i didnt actually block you

M: just so you know

Im glad. :G

**11:58 PM**

Is this whole thing actually alright with you? honestly. :G

You looked really bad when i left last night. :G

Should i have stayed? :G

M: no. i needed some time to myself

M: i needed to think

M: i probably stayed at the straight til 1

M: not all that wise but

M: what can i say

Is this actually ok though? :G

Even if you dont realize it, youre feelings for me could just be remaining feelings from your :G relationship with MK.                                                                                                                            

Plus… hate to say it but i really did betray you. :G

It sucks to admit that but i dont want things to be bad. :G

So if you ever want to end things just tell me. :G

M: thanks for saying all that but i really do like you

M: its never been about mk (mad king im guessing??) anyways

M: literally the only thing you guys have in common is the betrayal

M: that and being sexy :P

I actually cannot believed that you “:P”ed at me. that is actually so cute. :G

M: stfu

<3 :G

I like you so much. :G

I dont think i ever realized it before but almost losing you made me really dig deep. :G

M: i wish i could stay mad

M: but that was really sweet

M: and im also very tired

Tru dat. :G

M: you are such a fucking nerd

YOUR fucking nerd. :G

M: shit is too sappy lets go to sleep

Agreed. :G

 

 

            The next time that Michael actually talks to Geoff is through a headset; they meet in a private server for Minecraft and set to building a treehouse together. Not before dicking around, of course; Michael goads Geoff into catching three sheep, and when Geoff gets frustrated, he burns down a forest. The two laugh and talk about simpler things than secret jobs and breaking the law: games, movies, how Michael still can’t get over the ending of _The Sopranos._ (“Such bullshit,” he grumbles.) Not that he would admit it, but Michael had a better time talking to Geoff over Xbox than he did in real life. There was less pressure to act a certain way and withhold certain details of his lifestyle, and he liked way the headset pressurizes Geoff’s voice into a much sturdier, more commanding tone. It’s kind of hot.

            He tells Geoff as much. “I like the way your voice sounds on the headset,” he says as his avatar shuffles through inventory icons.

            There is shifting on the other side of the line. “You don’t sound bad yourself.”

            Michael hums, pleased, and selects a pickaxe to set forth in the caverns before him. “Not that you sound bad in person. It’s just kind of a different feel to hear you so close even though you’re miles away.” He picks at a coal block but favors to an iron one. “Sexy more than anything.”

            “I get the distinct feeling that there is going to be a lot of hot-n’-heavy in this relationship,” Geoff observes.

            “Who am I to disagree?” Michael is slowly losing interest in the game and leaning further into the couch behind him, relaxing into the intonation of Geoff’s words. “Don’t act like you’re not interested, I know you are.”

            It’s easy to picture Geoff shrugging at the remark, and the accompanying noise over the mic tells Michael as much. “What can I say, the tight pants worked.” There is a small silence between them that Geoff quickly fills with his singing. “I’m… Hooked on a feeling.”

            “I’m high on believing,” Michael supplies.

            “That you’re in love with me…” Geoff lets the song trail off.

Michael forces himself to refocus on the task at hand to collect iron ore. He’s half-thanking and half-cursing Geoff for breaking away from the original conversation, because now he’s sitting alone in his living room, half-hard with a stupid Blue Swede single stuck in his head. And all he can think to say is, “Fuck _Guardians of the Galaxy_.”

“I thought it was a good movie. Better than _Thor_ at least.”

His wooden pickaxe breaks just as the iron is about to break, and Michael grits his teeth. “Overrated. Almost every Marvel movie is better than _Thor_ , it’s not really an accomplishment.” He cards through his inventory for a replacement tool.

Geoff laughs. “Did you ever see _Daredevil_?”

“Did you ever see _Elektra_?”

“I own that on DVD you fucker, don’t talk to me.” Geoff actually sounds offended, and Michael has to mask his snort with a coughing fit. “Fine. Kill me for being infatuated with Jennifer Garner. She’s fucking hot, I don’t care what you say.”

Michael actually starts coughing this time because it’s so funny to hear Geoff get so irrationally annoyed. He wipes the tears out of his eyes and replies, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a dick-only type of guy.” Curiosity seeps into his voice. “So you’re bi?”

“Pan. Literally everyone is hot to me.”

Even though Geoff can’t see him, Michael nods. “Interesting.”

“I’m glad you think so. Usually I say I’m bi to people who ask because when I say pan they assume I like to fuck in the kitchen or some bullshit. It’s what I told my parents, anyways.” Michael can hear Geoff straightening. “What’d you tell yours?”

“They’ve always known. I brought a guy home after prom and they never asked questions. That’s about the only thing I have to thank Jersey for; it’s fairly progressive in the world of shithole America.”

A loud crash from the other side of the line jolts Michael. “Ha! I knew I heard an accent!”

Michael’s cheeks heat up. “Was that noise from you throwing your controller?”

Ignoring the question, Geoff deadpans, “You’re blushing, aren’t you.”

“Of course not!” Michael protests, laughing nervously. He’s more than half-hard now, and the conviction in Geoff’s words isn’t helping matters. Damn his submissive nature, and fuck his tendency to blush.

“Don’t lie to me. I know you are.” A husky undertone weaves its way through Geoff’s voice and meshes against his words. “C’mon, just admit it to me. It’s our little secret, Michael.”

“I-” Michael stops. His heart is racing, and he sets the controller down. He spreads his legs apart a little to give himself more room. The warmth seeping through his body is nearly unbearable, so thick he can hardly breathe. God, it’s almost shameful how much of a bottom he is.

“I’m blushing, Geoff. You’re right.” His face burns even more from the statement, but he quickly busies himself with unbuttoning his pants. Michael palms himself through his boxers, careful not to make a sound as air escapes from between his lips in whisper.

A blissful sigh rings in Michael’s ears. “That’s what I like to hear, kid.” Geoff is leaning back into his couch too, Michael can trace the sounds. “Now, if you’d like, I want you to unzip your pants.”

“Way ahead of you there.” Michael allows a slow stroke along the line of his cock, then awaits instruction eagerly.

Chuckling, then talking: “Naughty. You can go ahead and pull off the underwear too, I’m not all that interested in foreplay at the moment.” The way that Geoff says it, it’s like Michael should be thankful for the lack of teasing. Michael decides that he is, in fact, very appreciative for the initiative Geoff is showing.

Much faster than anticipated, Michael kicks off the jeans and pushes his boxers to his knees before sitting back down on the couch, hissing at the cold leather’s touch against his bare skin. Once settled, he asks, “What _are_ you interested in?”

“I want to hear you moan, Michael. I want you to let yourself go for me.” The rush of blood in his ears is unimaginably loud. Geoff commands, “Start stroking. Long, slow strokes. Don’t go fast on me.”

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Of course, Michael’s already abiding by Geoff’s orders, but he wants to provoke Geoff as much as possible in the process. “You gonna spank me like a bad boy?”

“You’re gonna _wish_ I’d spank you.”

Michael has to slow his pace, because he’s already going too fast, Geoff’s remarks driving his hand up and down. He spits in his hand and resumes the motions, thankful for the gliding sensation to ease his actions.

Not waiting for a retort, Geoff says, “Go a little faster. Make sure to tease the head with your thumb.”

The instructions aren’t up for debate. Michael quickens his movements as much as he dares, then swipes his thumb along the head of his cock. The instant surge of pleasure makes him moan softly, barely loud enough to be picked up by the mic, and he swipes once more for good measure.

“Mm. Can you talk for me, Michael? Don’t stop touching yourself.”

His mind can hardly grasp what Geoff is saying, but Michael manages, “Fuck, please Geoff,” before trailing off in a long, low moan. He really, really hopes that Geoff doesn’t expect him to respond coherently anymore because he isn’t sure exactly what his mouth is capable of at this point apart from hisses and groans.

Apparently satisfied, Geoff says, “You have my permission to fuck into your hand. Go at whatever pace’ll make you cum, and make it loud for me. I want you to say my name.”

“F-fuh…” Michael can’t think. His hips jolt towards his hand, and his other hand slips up his shirt to tease at a nipple. “Geoff, Geoff, G-geoff please,” he begs, and he’s not sure what he’s asking for anymore. Anything. Nothing. He wants Geoff to keep talking. “Please…”

“C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

That’s what pushes Michael over. He can’t hear over the sudden overflow of white noise frothing from his ears, but the smack of his head against the wall as he throws it back in pleasure registers as barely existing, and he knows that the high moan in his mouth is supposed to be a broken semblance of Geoff’s name. The world is too bright, and he doesn’t realize his eyes are shut until he blinks them open to see the mess he made on his stomach. “Shit,” he growls, voice cracking from exertion. “Fuck.”

“God, you’re hot,” Geoff sighs from the headset still barely seated on Michael’s head.

Michael straightens the garment and asks, “Am I allowed to make you cum now?” Payback’s a bitch, and he’s more than ready to serve.

To his irritation, Geoff laughs. “I hope you realize that I jacked off before even getting in the game with you because I know exactly how much listening to you talk turns me on. I guess it’s the accent.”

The blush is back in full force. “Fuck you.” He mutes Geoff and turns off the Xbox, cum dripping down his stomach as he makes his way to the bathroom. A shower is exactly what he needs at this point, and he’s sure Geoff’s blowing up his phone all the while.

 

 

**10:31 PM**

I am sooooo glad you like to bottom. :G

I mean if you wanted to top sometimes thats alright but i always thought youd make a sexy      :G bottom and guess whos right??

Im really disappointed that i jacked off beforehand because. oooohh. really sounded like you :G were looking forward to getting back at me.

Then again i like having the satisfaction of not letting you have your way. :G

Its a fair toss up, really. :G

**10:55 PM**

M: i dont care where we meet next, we are getting each other off pronto

M: one way or another

Oh my god. yes. dreams really do come true!! :G

M: and i really want you to spend the night at some point so we can take our time

M: not that going fast bothers me but. im really curious to see how much of a tease you are

Youll regret wanting to find out ;) :G

M: make me regret it

M: please

Thats an offer i cannot refuse. :G

Also: i love it when you say please. :G

M: pleased to please, sir

STOP THATS ENOUGH FOR TONIGHT goodnight michael. :G

M: <3

 

 

            When Michael stirs from his sleep to a rough pounding on the door, his first thought is that the week of nonstop coy texting finally drove Geoff to his door. They haven’t actually spoken since the Minecraft incident, though, which is why Michael feels a little apprehensive to unjamming the deadlock.

            He opens the door to find that his instincts were right.

            Immediately, what he wants to do is slam the door shut, right in the fucker’s stupid smug face. Instead, he just stands there, not quite sure whether his body is capable of motion at all.

            “Well, are you gonna invite me in?” the Mad King purrs, and Michael steps aside accordingly, in a trance-like state.

            Ryan takes in the living room rather than sitting; after scanning his surroundings thoroughly, he says, “Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here. You still have the same stolen cables. Only fifty channels, if I remember correctly. If you want, I can get you something better.”

            Swallowing, Michael finds courage hidden in the back of his throat. His fists curl tight, and he forces himself to relax. “Why are you here?”

            “Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.” Ryan starts pulling his shirt off.

            Michael stares uncertainly. “No, really, I’m clueless.”

            “The cop. The one that’s trailing you.” Smirking, Ryan strides to Michael and pushes a hand beneath Michael’s shirt, tracing over the curve of his hip with short fingernails.

            “He’s not trailing me anymore,” Michael whispers, not moving away but not accepting Ryan’s touch entirely. He wants to protest, to stop whatever is happening from happening, but another part of him, one that’s been broken and shattered too many times to completely disappear, wants to lean into Ryan and breathe him in. He mumbles, “It’s the middle of the night.”

            “I sleep during the day.” Ryan’s hand squeezes, and his lips part and move over Michael’s, pushing a tongue into Michael’s mouth to prod him into submission.

It’s such an old sensation, one that Michael’s missed for years, that he lets himself bask in it and float before remembering one very large difference between then and now. Michael pulls out of the kiss. “I have a boyfriend.”

Ryan looks at Michael, baffled, then smiles. “Good for you. Is he tall? Does he smoke?” Ryan assigns both of his hands to the task of pushing down Michael’s pants and underwear. The cloth sinks down to Michael’s knees beneath his touch. “Does he fuck you like you want him to?”

“Fuck,” Michael gasps before he can stop himself. Ryan’s hand is cold and assertive against his cock.

“Let’s take this to the couch, shall we?” They shamble to the couch as a unit, and Ryan pushes Michael to the leather first, onto his hands and knees. “I miss how much you like being bossed around. I’ve met good bottoms, sure, but you definitely have a high rank.”

It’s fucked up that Michael is already hard. “I know you’re not just here to fuck, so what is it that you want?” He peers between his legs to see Ryan licking his lips. The ulterior motive part of the situation only slightly bothers Michael, and is becoming less and less of an issue as his skin grows tighter.

“Assurance,” is all Ryan says before spreading Michael’s cheeks apart and taking a long, wet lick.

Michael shivers. “Assurance for what?”

Another lick, though this one pauses over the center of Michael’s hole and circles before continuing upwards. “I don’t want you selling me out to Ramsey. This is assurance that that won’t happen. More of a reminder, really.” He breathes out, the air hitting Michael and making him feel more exposed than ever. “Now, do you have any more questions or am I allowed to rim you?”

The hands are pushing insistently into Michael’s flesh. He knows that this is kind of cheating, no, this is _really_ cheating, but he can’t stand to think of Geoff at the moment and, honestly, no one ever said they were exclusive to begin with. He knows he’s making up excuses to shield himself from the guilt and he doesn’t care. “Yes, God, please Ryan,” he mumbles and lets his head fall against the arm of the couch, bracing himself with his arms.

It’s all the invitation Ryan needs.

Michael’s knees tremble weakly as Ryan’s tongue pushes more insistently at his hole, nearly entering from the pressure alone. He can’t help the moaning now, and if the tightening of Ryan’s hold means anything, his pleasure only encourages Ryan to lick harder. Up, down, up, down, a tease around the hole, back down. There’s no pattern to Ryan’s motion, and Michael thrives in the unpredictable nature of his actions.

Ryan’s hand leaves his ass only to come down in a mild slap, and Michael gasps into the couch. “Fucking please,” he sobs softly.

The Mad King either doesn’t hear him or ignores the statement, favoring instead to squeeze Michael’s ass to the prints of his hands. The movement is electric in its own way; Michael squirms beneath his touch and arches his back to the ceiling. This is the kind of fucking that is vanilla in the sense of actions, but horribly disgusting in terms of emotional toll. Michael knows that there isn’t a damn thing he can do or say right now that he won’t regret when Ryan leaves, but he sucks the thoughts in and leaves them quietly, in a corner of his head, a distant echo that will only be allowed to resound when he resigns to the silence of the night. His veins beat hard enough to form bruises, and this is the kind of situation that Michael likens to an addict smoking cigarettes instead of shooting up; a break in virtue, and, if truth be told, just a slower way to watch himself rot to the paper stick in his hand.

He floats in philosophy, deaf to the noises coming out of his own mouth, given up to the steady rhythm of Ryan’s tongue. The tongue enters Michael, finally, and he either wants to laugh or cry; there is no appropriate reaction to getting fucked by his ex, though, so he bids himself to the stream of moans he’s so fond of creating. He is entirely numb and at the same time can feel the sweat streaming from his pores. He feels like drifting but is tethered to Ryan’s touch. He rolls in waves and the world is entirely still to the beat of his heart.

Michael actually screams when he cums, a long note smashing through the quiet of the apartment building. His new neighbors are druggies. It’s okay to be loud once in a while. He slouches forward, muscles burning as though the exertion of orgasm is too much to bear, and Ryan laughs behind him.

“You’re too quick now. Gotta train up that boyfriend of yours to spoil you.” He’s already standing, pulling his shirt back over his head. Michael’s almost certain that he’ll be making a few more stops like this in the near future, to fuck and protect himself in the process. It’s more sickening than the stupid cigarette-heroin comparison.

It’s exhausting and he just wants to fall asleep even as he speaks, but Michael manages, “Geoff. The cop. He’s my boyfriend.”

That makes Ryan pause. The shirt is back on, and they stand in the dark. Michael wonders why he never had a mind to turn the lights on at some point. After a few seconds, Ryan says, “I’m safe, right?”

“Mm. He asked me about you and I said that we used to go out and whatnot, but that’s it. He says he’s done with the questions.” Michael sits up and rubs his eyes. There’s jizz all over the couch and he’s starting to feel a little more awake, if not pissed about the jizz situation.

“I’m not trying to make you think that I really care,” Ryan says, “but don’t you think he could be using you? I mean, he’s a fucking cop. Come on.”

That sets Michael off. “What, you don’t think it’s possible that someone actually likes me? It’s not always about you, asshat. He fucking likes me. I know he does.”

“What, did you ask his mom?” Ryan laughs. “I’m just trying to look out for you. Obviously, your judgement is impaired when it comes to romance. Shit, you went out with me. And now a cop? I have a right to be concerned.”

“And I have the right to tell you to get out of my house.” Michael points to the door. “Get the fuck out, Ryan.”

Shrugging, Ryan says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He strides to the door and turns the knob to leave. “Oh, make sure to check through your house tomorrow. I may or may not have left something for your cop boyfriend to find.”

The door slams shut and Michael is about to start sobbing right there and then. Of course the visit wasn’t for assurance… Ryan was planting evidence at Michael’s apartment. This whole thing was to frame Michael as the Mad King, Michael realizes thickly. And if Geoff finds whatever “evidence” Ryan spoke of in the house…

Michael sniffles and bats away at the tears. He stands and pieces his sleeping ensemble back together before dealing with the jizz. If he was rational, he would start looking for the evidence right now. But he isn’t rational; he’s tired. He leans back on the clean couch and falls asleep, eyes still stinging.

 

 

            Nothing about his life is okay, he realizes when he looks down at his bleeding fist. The blood is on the wall too, a splatter the size of a piece of bread, sinking into the stupid beige paint. His knuckles hurt like a bitch and he wants to just start yelling at the whole apartment because he can’t find the fucking evidence and he cheated on his boyfriend and, in short, everything is shit.

            The phone rings and Michael screams behind closed teeth. He snatches his cellphone off the counter and answers, “What?”

            “Guess who’s waiting outside of your apartment building?” Geoff asks in turn, and Michael’s problems suddenly multiply by forty-seven.

            “Um,” Michael says. He can’t think of a viable excuse as to why Geoff can’t come to see him, so he says, “Alright. Come on up,” with the most level voice he can muster and hangs up on the call. With any luck, Geoff won’t find the evidence either. Especially since Michael couldn’t find it all morning, even in a thorough search.

            His eyes are still combing the room when Geoff knocks at the door. Michael opens it, realizing that he never locked the damn thing after Ryan left. Was it luck or misfortune that armed robbers didn’t attack him in his sleep?

            Geoff is babbling about something that Michael’s anxiety forces into gibberish, and it’s only when he’s walking back to the living room that he finds out where the evidence is.

            A gun. A fucking gun is sitting on the coffee table with the remotes.

            Thinking quickly, Michael puts his back to the Glock and walks backwards, smiling at Geoff as he talks. When his leg hits the table, his hand closes around the gun and shoves it downward into the seat of his pants. He prays to god that it’s unloaded and sits on the couch, trying to catch up with the one-sided conversation.

            “The hand?” Geoff asks, and Michael’s eyes flick to his battered phalanges.

            Instead of coming up with a rational alibi, Michael says, “It’s nothing to worry about,” and tries for another smile.

He can tell that Geoff is growing steadily more and more uneasy. “Have anything to do with the blood on the wall? Seems like you’ve had a pretty rough day, and it’s only eleven.” The feeble joke is lost in the air between them, and Michael knows they are getting nowhere. “Look, it it’s a bad time, I can leave.”

His automatic response is, “No, I’m fine,” and he wants to beat the living hell out of whatever stupid fuse in his brain caused those words to come out of his mouth.

Geoff shakes his head. “I can tell you’re lying. What’s wrong?” The concern is killing him.

“Like you said, rough day. Or morning.” This is so fucking dumb. This is all so fucking dumb.

“Really?” Geoff’s arms cross over his chest.

Subconsciously, Michael steps forward. The gun slips out of his pants and clatters to the fake wood floor.

There is silence. Then:

“What the _fuck_ is that?”

Michael’s hands fly up in surrender. “Please, hear me out,” he begs, but Geoff’s having none of it.

Shoving Michael out of the way, Geoff bends down and picks up the pistol. He stands and studies the G19, and Michael notes the carefully carved “MK” insignia over the slide. Geoff’s lips are pressed together in a hard line. He ejects the magazine and dumps bullets on the floor.

“I swear this isn’t what it looks like.” Cliché, sure, but Michael figures that it’s the only phrase that entirely captures what he’s trying to get out. “Let me tell you what happened. Just give me a few more minutes of your time. Please.”

Geoff tosses the magazine to the couch and pushes the rest of the gun into his back pocket. He pinches the bridge of his nose, holds his breath for a little too long, and lets the air loose from his lungs. Only now does Michael understand that Geoff could be well over a decade older than him, because the stress lines are zig-zagging through the initially-smooth exterior of Geoff’s face like the cracks of a San Franciscan earthquake.

Sighing, Geoff says, “I’m giving you three minutes before I head to the station.”

Michael bows his head. Where the fuck does he even begin? “Well… The Mad King visited last night. He convinced me to…” Michael pauses. He wasn’t convinced; he didn’t even need a push. He wanted to have sex more than he had a right to. “We had sex. It turned out that the sex was just a distraction to give the Mad King an opportunity to frame me by leaving the gun here.” He can already see the emotional turmoil building behind Geoff’s eyes. “I’m sorry for cheating. It’s my fault, he didn’t force himself onto me or anything. It was my choice and I understand that you might want to leave this relationship because of it. Just believe me when I say that I really do regret it.”

            With deliberate smoothness, Geoff pulls the gun out of his pants and drops it on the floor. When it hits the ground, the sound is louder than the first time. “Get rid of it,” is all Geoff says before leaving Michael with a disassembled G19 and a mess of bullets.

 

 

**6:19 PM**

M: its gone

**7:35 PM**

Make sure its in a place i wont find it. even if i go looking. :G

M: im not going to say trust me but its gone. for good

**9:48 PM**

M: am i ever going to see you again

**10:12 PM**

God i hope not. :G

M: im sorry this ever happened

Me too. :G

 

 

            After two weeks of silence and racing, Michael is sure that the person at his door Tuesday afternoon is Ryan, come back to fuck him over even more than before. When he answers the door, the knife is in his hand and he’s prepared to actually kill the man he once loved. But it isn’t Ryan; it’s Geoff.

            Of course it’s Geoff.

            “Why are there always strange men at my door?” Michael asks.

            The silence is unnerving. Geoff pushes his way past Michael into the apartment, and Michael is pliant against the force. This is it. Geoff found the gun in the arcade parking lot and is here to arrest him. He is going to jail, he is going to court, he is going to prison. This is his life, all for one stupid fuck. Stupid.

            Michael follows Geoff into the living room and says, “We weren’t supposed to meet each other again. We’re broken up. We’re done. You said it yourself.” Technically, no, Geoff didn’t say exactly that, but it was still solid and clear that the irrationally normal relationship they tried to have had been marred by two key deceptions: the cop secret and the cheating. The Mad King confusion is only the tip of the iceberg. He stops when Geoff turns to face him and takes a step back. “So, what is it that you want?”

            Geoff closes the distance between them and meets Michael in a hard kiss. Their teeth click and Geoff levels his tongue with Michael’s, less in a show of dominance and more of an attack of the senses. Michael’s world is opaque; this is wrong, this is horribly wrong, and Michael craves it more than ever. He tastes Geoff without a second thought and grabs his shirt roughly, the material snagging over a sharp fingernail. The sounds that meet his ears are wet and angry, and he wants to feel as much pain as he inflicts. He jerks back from Geoff’s lips and yanks the shirt off his body, revealing the tattoos that Michael once dreamed of fawning over. Now it’s just ink, just another permanent stain to his so-called “good fortune,” something to think about in the dark beneath popcorn ceilings.

            Everything is so fucking shameful and beautiful. It makes Michael miss the cocaine.

            He’s joined to Geoff’s mouth again, and Geoff’s hands are shoving his pants down. Michael shimmies the jeans off his legs without detaching from Geoff and kicks them off, only boxers remaining. But Geoff is spinning him around and shoving him on the couch, and suddenly the boxers are no longer an issue. Like during the Minecraft session, Michael hisses at the cold of the couch on his bare skin, but Geoff doesn’t allow him to adjust. He shoves Michael onto his hands and knees, more harshly than Ryan, and pushes down his own pants and underwear. Once the clothes are off, the spreads Michael’s thighs open and pours a slimy substance over Michael’s hole.

            “What the _fuck_ is that?”

            “I came prepared.” Michael hears the ripping of foil and soon feels the head of a slickened cock push at his ass. “Do you need prepping?”

            Michael makes a pained noise. “Would it kill you to take it slow? We have the time.”

            Shaking his head, Geoff says, “In less than an hour we’ll both regret this. You know it. Foreplay doesn’t happen when you hate the person you’re with.”

            “Fuck you,” Michael snarls, and sits up from his position. He’ll clean the lube off the couch later. His hand curls around Geoff’s cock and begins stroking up and down, a half-step between slow and medium speed. “You don’t get to decide this shit. This is non-fucking-negotiable. We take it my pace or you get your ass the fuck out of here.” Michael is tired of hearing the word “doormat” and applying it to himself. He is done with taking orders, with being subservient to a world of cruel people. This is not about being abused; thankfully, that is one problem he has not been crunched with in his twenty-six years. It is about the times he’s let himself be run over by his own emotions.

            His hand moves faster over Geoff, and he earns a contented sigh. As he pumps upward, he squeezes around the head and Geoff moans accordingly. “So,” Michael talks casually, “is this too slow for you? Are you not enjoying this?” Geoff is about to respond but Michael shuts him up with a particularly hard jerk of the wrist. “Do you want me to stop?” Geoff’s hands creep toward Michael’s, and Michael snaps, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

            _Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me._

Michael bends over and wraps his mouth around Geoff’s cock, only the head, then slowly works at engulfing Geoff’s entire length loosely. When he feels the sure tug of Geoff’s fingers through his hair, he slaps Geoff’s chest. Hard. The fingers pull away, and Michael resumes the gentle back-and-forth action of his lips on Geoff. When he figures that the torture has been enough of a lesson (and after the subsequent whimpers on Geoff’s part), he actually sucks, and gives more sensation with the press of his fingertips over inches that Michael couldn’t take entirely into him.

            “Faster, faster,” Geoff urges, and Michael slows again.

            He can sense the anger lurking beneath Geoff’s skin, like heat coils beneath cement. Warm enough to feel, but not hot enough to burn. The frustration is more tangible than Florida humidity, enough for Michael to trace to the steady tremble of Geoff’s thighs. The wrath is real, and Michael likens it to a river rather than a bonfire; building, raging, and never-ending, as opposed to the flame that flickers.

            The assault of Michael’s tongue slows to a stop, and he looks up at Geoff. His back straightens.

            “Okay. You can fuck me now,” Michael says carefully. He’s letting himself be overcome one last time because hell if he hasn’t taken enough damage already.

            Geoff is shoving Michael back onto all fours and pushing a finger into him, all too fast, but this is what Michael was aiming for. The anger is moving two fingers through him, and when the motion is no longer satisfyingly tight, a third is added. Michael is moaning and rolling his hips back, and Geoff is mumbling, “You’re gonna wish you never teased me, you’re gonna wish you’d never met me.” There is fire between them and incredible friction, the sort of shit that spills out of a wounded heart and is lit with kerosene, and Michael swears that a kiss at this point would split through him like a knife.

            The fingers retract from within him, and feeling empty never hurt so much.

            “I’m gonna fuck you,” Geoff pants and collects a fistful of Michael’s hair, yanking Michael’s head back.

            He shivers. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

Geoff pushes forward, and Michael’s back arches. The feeling is wet and good, and so much worse than it ever was when he cheated with Ryan. It’s the spite, Michael knows; rather than cheating in terms of trustworthiness, this was cheating in the sense of vows. It’s crushing and fucking enlightening.

The anger behind Geoff’s hips drives deeper into Michael, and the world bends beneath his eyelids. His nerves are shot. His mouth is numb and open, panting. The lack of control that he finds in his own body fizzles like Alka-Seltzer in his veins.

There is poetry that Michael could write about the moments leading to orgasm, about the way Geoff breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth like he’s trying to meditate, about the dirty nature of what they’re doing. He could make allusions to _Macbeth_ through the madness in his self-destructive nature. He could write and write and write, and there would never be enough paper or time to get it all down. The words stretch on to infinity.

But if he could only summarize the escapism in one sentence. Something to cover the entire shitty length of his and Geoff’s relationship:

Michael wants to be set on fire but he can’t be bothered to find a lighter.

The orgasm itself is satisfying in the physical sense that it leaves Michael shaking and screaming for Geoff, who follows moments later. But it is horribly and truly disgusting in the way that Michael is immediately paved over with the weight of his actions, the terrible feeling that he did something wrong and what will occur next may or may not be within his control. He is helpless to himself, and it is terrifying.

 

 

            The Hellcat’s passenger seat holds a bag full of Michael’s important belongings; money, the Xbox, a couple of games, family heirlooms. All things small enough to come along for the ride and important enough to not be abandoned to the landlord.

            There’s a map pulled up on Michael’s phone and a beanie over his hair. The Saturday night crew has never been so powerless to Michael’s skills; he’s beaten four of his challengers by a quarter of the straight and the other couple by more. This is child’s play, though; things are not important until the Buick pulls up alongside him.

            Michael unbuckles. He grabs a letter from within his center console and steps out of the car. The window of the Buick is rolled down before Michael is able to tap on the window.

            He tosses the letter into Geoff’s lap. “You’re not supposed to read this ‘til after the race, but if you can’t wait, be my guest.” He can hear the paper envelope tear open as he walks back to his car.

            The checkered flag is raised after a few moments. Michael is anxious to move, both because of the contents of the letter and the sudden buzzing of his phone. Michael tosses the phone into the passenger seat and revs his engine. He shifts into first.

            The flag is dropped. The Hellcat lurches forward.

            The Buick is already leading by a yard or so, but it’s nothing to worry Michael. He shifts into second, then third. The rpm meter tilts toward the fourth notch, and Michael plays it safe by shifting into fourth.

            Neck in neck with the Buick, the Hellcat bursts into motion when Michael pushes harder on the pedal. The rpm moves toward the fourth notch and Michael doesn’t let up. The speed meter is running on eighty-and-five. Onward, to the finish line.

            And past. Michael doesn’t stop to find out who won, doesn’t even slow. He shifts into fifth and speeds off, past the end of the straight and into streets of traffic. He allows the Hellcat to slow to only fifteen mph faster than the limit, and eventually slurs to obeying the law. He doesn’t care how Geoff reacted to the note. He doesn’t.

            That’s not the reason he’s crying, he thinks. No. The thrill of the road is overpowering. It’s one of the few things worth crying over.

 

 

 

_Dear Geoff,_

_Let me preface this by saying that we are most definitely not getting back together. That is the last thing I want to happen at this point in my life, because everything that has happened between us has been venom and I’m not a fucking snake. So, there. Fuck your whole after-sex speech about how much you love me and want me back. In fact, fuck you._

_Okay. Onto the real subject:_

_I have decided after the events of the past few weeks that this life isn’t fit for me. More specifically, this place isn’t fit for me. I fucking hate how I live here, how I wake up here, how I sleep here, how I survive here. This is the worst point in my life and I am more than ready to leave it behind._

_I’m leaving._

_This is not entirely because of you, but I am not about to pretend that you weren’t a defining factor towards this decision. The Mad King is a large part of it too, along with my previous and present affiliations with him. The gun is only a small piece of our shared hell. So, what I’m leaving you with is the identity of the man who screwed me over more than anyone else: Ryan Haywood. I trust that pointing you to evidence is unnecessary. He is cloaked in an ego that allows him to look past his own shortcomings and, subsequently, the materials needed to identify him as the Mad King. It will not be hard work to gather the proper forensics._

_I do this not for you, but myself. Lock this man up as long as possible, and don’t let him into your bed. He is ten times worse than anything that has transpired between us._

_Lastly, I leave you with the true motive for my abandonment of this city; I am doing this to better myself. People say that you can’t run from your problems, but I’m fast and I have gas money. You’ll know if it all crashes down on me. You know my name. I know you’ll look me up, check on me, whatever. You’re just that type of guy. I’m okay with that. Just do not, under any circumstances, attempt to pursue me. I will end you._

_Anyways: I’m doing this for myself. Me, myself, and I. Because, hell… When’s the last time I’ve done something for myself?_

_Good luck with the investigation._

_Once yours,_

_Michael Jones._

 

**8:07 PM**

Michael you have to be fucking kidding me. :G

You arent leaving the state. :G

**12:23 AM**

Tell me im wrong. :G

**3:52 AM**

Please. :G


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